


The Play

by calapine



Category: Withnail & I
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calapine/pseuds/calapine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the first week, Marwood found Withnail lurking in his dressing room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Petronia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/gifts).



By the end of the first week, several things had happened that had profoundly surprised Marwood. Firstly, the play was a resounding success: he hadn't even heard the whisper of a bad review and he'd seen more than one that left him a rather disturbing shade of red; he'd experienced what it was like to have an entire audience on their feet applauding and realising with a sort of dizzying terror that they were applauding _him_.

Secondly, on Sunday evening he had opened his dressing room door to find Withnail inside.

He'd almost slammed the door shut again; half-convinced unnoticed tremors of panic had induced this pale and sickly vision of alcoholic vapours personified.

Instead he steeled himself and took a step forward.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Withnail harrumphed and slumped even further into the chair he was sprawled in. Maybe, thought Marwood, it would swallow him whole, take him back to the part of his mind that had seen fit to conjure him up.

And perhaps it would have were Withnail not, in fact, very much real. "What a charming greeting that is," he said. "So nice to see you too."

Marwood swallowed and managed to close the door behind him. He could smell the alcohol from several feet away, but at least Withnail didn't have a bottle in his hand. "Did anyone see you?"

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm not some dirty little secret you're trying to keep in the closet. I happened to be in the area and thought I'd pop in to say hello like any normal sociable human being."

"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant...curtain's up in twenty minutes. You can't just come wandering in back here. People don't like it. They shout."

"No-one shouted."

"You're sure?"

Withnail's eyes slid to the side; his mouth twitched. "Well, there was some undersized Scottish lout who couldn't stop waving his pocket watch around. He seemed to have some objection to my opinions on the scenery."

"That's the director," said Marwood.

"He's intensely annoying. You should have him fired."

"I can't have him fired, Withnail."

"Aren't you going to offer me a coffee or tea and biscuits? I've got a bloody awful headache from all these lights. They're unnaturally bright. Are you trying to frighten away phantasmagoria or something?"

"You're staying for the show?"

"Of course I am. I've even got a ticket." He pulled a crushed piece of paper from his pocket and it was, sure enough, a bona fide ticket for the play that night. "I paid actual money for this," he said, shaking it like a tiny blandly coloured flag. "It had better be good."

"It is," said Marwood, without thinking. Withnail glared at him. "It _is_," he insisted. "All the papers love it. We get a full house most nights."

"Oh, so you're _popular_. That's hardly the same thing. And I wouldn't trust a journalist as far as I could throw this dilapidated building."

"Well, people are enjoying it then. That's enough for me."

"Is it by God?" He twisted his head around, his eyes like searchlights as he looked over the little dressing room. "Are those flowers? Why have you got flowers?"

"They're a gift."

"From who? A girl? Have you been having a girl in here?" He stared around furiously. "Where is she then? I insist on meeting her at once."

"There isn't a girl. They're just a sort of welcome aboard gift. You know, since they were having so much trouble finding a suitable lead."

"And then they found you. Lucky them." He flung himself to his feet. "I suppose I'll see you on stage."

-

Withnail was there the next night too. And the next. Marwood became used to him, like a rusty tap that wouldn't stop leaking.

"You're not living in here are you?" he asked him, finally.

"How dare you," snapped Withnail, spooning teaspoonfuls of sugar into a mug of coffee that he'd pilfered from somewhere in the building. "I happen to be residing in a charmingly under furnished establishment on the other side of town." He chugged the coffee back, then wretched, but managed to keep the stuff down. "That's disgusting. Get some fucking decent coffee in here, for God's sake. How else am I supposed to stay awake during that interminable nonsense I have to sit through every night?"

"You don't have to sit through it. You could go home."

"I happen to like the seats here. They're very good for my back."

There was a rap at the door. It opened to reveal the short, Scottish director. Withnail backed away, then seemed unable to make up his mind over whether he wanted to hide behind Marwood or stare daggers at the director in the most threatening manner he was capable of.

"We're done," said the director, rolling his r's in a somewhat alarming way. "The fucking show's over. Johnson's gone and broken his bloody leg."

"Is he alright?"

"What? No! He's broken his fucking leg, hasn't he? And the show's down the fucking tube without him. We haven't got anyone who can play the bloody part with a tenth of the intensity required. The show is fucking _done_."

Marwood stared at him for a long, terrifying moment. The floor seemed to tip beneath his feet. Panic. But it settled. Everything was upright again. Still. Solid. The words seemed to come out of his mouth of their own accord: "Withnail could do it?"

"What?" The director stared at him with small, beady eyes.

"He's an actor. He could do it. Couldn't you, Withnail?"

"Is he any good?" asked the director.

Withnail bristled spectacularly. "Too good for your scummy production, you miniature Scotch-"

"Yes!" said Marwood, hands raised placatingly. "He's good. Really, very good. Just, give him a shot. He knows the play."

"I do, do I?" muttered Withnail, rather menacingly in his ear.

"Yes," said Marwood. He managed to meet Withnail's eyes. "You've seen it often enough now, haven't you? And I thought you knew this stuff anyway, so you always said. So go on. Why not?"

Withnail drew himself up to look down at the director like a slightly intoxicated bird of prey. "I suppose I could give it a shot."

"Fine. Meet me on stage in five minutes."

Once they were gone Marwood stared at the blank wall. It had been a good idea, hadn't it? It had seemed to make perfect sense only moments ago. He could surely survive Withnail here, surrounded by so many others. If he couldn't escape him surely his exposure to so many more people would minimise his ripples of insanity?

What if it didn't? What if it merely reflected his particular brand of madness, increasing it exponentially until, until....Marwood snapped down into a chair. He remembered to breath.

Just because things were easier without him, just because the prospect of actually working with him lurked like an unnameable terror in the edges of his imagination, didn't mean he hadn't missed the bastard.

He realised with a horrified start that he was smiling stupidly at the wall.

Fucking hell.

-

"I've got the part," declared Withnail with all the humility of a conquering hero. He lit a cigarette and collapsed on the floor, grinning hazily at the ceiling.

Marwood stared down at him, eyeing the cigarette warily. He had a horrible vision of the theatre going up in flames. "Are you high?" he asked.

"An entirely natural one, I assure you." He took a long drag. "Well, almost entirely."

-

They stood in the wings, waiting. Behind the curtain they could hear the bustle of a fresh audience finding their seats and entertaining themselves with idle, expectant conversation.

"Christ, I need a fag."

Marwood's eyes snapped open. The words had been softly spoken, an unnatural tone for Withnail and for a moment he considered that he'd merely imagined them. Slowly, he recognised the expression that Withnail was trying so desperately to hide. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Of course I am."

"You look a bit scared." Terrified, actually.

"How dare you!" hissed Withnail. "I am a _professional_."

-

"You were magnificent!"

"I was rather, wasn't I?" Withnail had the air of a peacock who was far too aware of how spectacular his plumage was. A peacock who, two hours ago, had been convinced he was about to have his neck wrung before he was plucked and stuffed in a hot oven.

"Very professional," said Marwood.

"I should bloody well hope so."

"You'll stay on, won't you? Johnson's out of it now." He tried not to sound too eager.

"I suppose that could be arranged."

"Good."

"I'll want my own dressing room, of course."

"Right, I'm sure that's fine."

"And flowers."

"Course."

Marwood tensed, waiting for the next demand.

"Well then," said Withnail, "I need a drink. To the pub, I think."

Marwood smiled. "To the pub," he agreed.


End file.
